I didn’t grow up thinking I would one day build a materials startup. In fact, if you asked my younger self, I would’ve said I’d probably become a teacher or a photographer. Sustainability wasn’t a trending word in my childhood; it was just the background noise of the life we lived. I grew up in Barrackpore, near Kolkata, in a neighborhood where plastic waste piled up faster than the municipality could clear it. Every monsoon, the drains overflowed with bottles, wrappers, and bags. And every year, someone would say, “We need to stop using so much plastic,” and then life went on the same way.

I didn’t hate plastic; I hated the helplessness around it.

In college, I studied materials science mostly because I was good at physics and bad at everything else. That’s the honest truth. But somewhere along the way, the subject stopped being academic and became personal. I learned how materials behave, how they break down, how they resist decay for centuries. And I realized something that made me uneasy: every plastic wrapper we casually threw away when I was ten years old still exists somewhere today, intact, untouched, quietly waiting to outlive all of us.

The turning point came during a project in my second year. My professor handed us a bag of rice husk and said, “Turn this into something useful.” It sounded ridiculous at first — turning agricultural waste into anything meaningful. But after weeks of experimenting, burning fingers, failed binders, and endless trial-and-error sessions, we created a crude but workable sheet of bio-composite. It was flimsy, brown, and rough on the edges, but holding it felt like holding a possibility.

The idea for Kreskros started right there — not with a polished business plan, but with the messy excitement of realizing waste didn’t have to stay waste.

After graduation, I spent a year hopping between small local factories, cardboard workshops, and rural agricultural co-ops. I wanted to understand why eco-friendly materials always seemed like a privilege. Most businesses liked the idea of sustainability, but not the cost. Most customers wanted eco-friendly options, but not at triple the price. I knew if I wanted to make impact real, I had to make sustainable material affordable, strong, and scalable.

Kreskros was officially born in a rented 200-square-foot godown that smelled like old rope and wet jute. My first machines were half-broken units I bought from a scrapyard and restored myself. I learned more from those machines than any course could have taught me — how pressure affects fiber bonding, how heat changes tensile strength, how natural resins behave under humidity. The first 100 sheets of EcoFiber we produced were so inconsistent that I almost quit. But every time I wanted to give up, I remembered the streets of Barrackpore in monsoon, and those plastic-filled drains that refused to disappear.

Today, Kreskros isn’t just about materials; it’s about rewriting the destiny of waste, one fiber, one sheet, one product at a time. Sustainability doesn’t have to be glamorous; it just has to be possible. And that’s the possibility I’m dedicating my life to.